Crimson Joy (12 page)

"Yes."

"It is unfortunate as hell," Susan said, "that our professional lives have had to intersect like this, so soon after we had reorganized our personal lives."

"I know," I said. "But we have to deal with it. We've dealt with worse."

"Yes," she said, and took another hit on the Chianti. "We have.

And we can. It's just that the problem cuts across business and personal in a way that touches on the core of our relationship."

"I know," I said.

"We are able to love one another with the intensity that we do because we are able to be separate while we are at the same time one."

"E Pluribus Unum?" I said.

"I think that's something else," Susan said.

The salads went and pasta came. When the waiter had set down the food and left, Susan said, "This thing is compromising the separateness. I'm never alone. If you're not with me, Hawk is. And when I'm working, one of you is there, at the top of the stairs with a gun."

I nodded. I was having linguine with clam sauce. It was elegant.

"You know that this has nothing to do with being tired of you," Susan said. She had her fork in her hand and was leaning forward over her tortellini.

"Yes," I said. "I know that."

"Or Hawk," Susan said. "There is no one except you I enjoy being with more than Hawk."

"But you need time alone."

"Absolutely."

"But," I said, "we can't let him kill you." Susan smiled.

"No. We can't," she said. "And I'm quite confident that we won't. If I'm to be guarded, who better?"

We ate pasta.

"If one of my patients is in fact the Red Rose killer, and left the rose in my hallway, I could probably make a stab at which of these names it is," Susan said.

"But you aren't going to," I said.

"I can't." She ate some more tortellini. "Yet."

"Remember that it's not only you. It might be some unknown black woman that he's going to do next."

Susan nodded. "That of course also weighs with me. This is very difficult." She drank some wine. "He has not struck, if you'll pardon the melodramatic statement, since Washburn confessed."

"We both know the answer to that," I said.

"Yes. He could lie low for a while."

"But how long?" I said.

"He'd probably be able to hold off for a while, but… it's need. The poor bastard is driven by a need he cannot resist. He's acting out something awful."

"So he'll do it again."

"Yes," Susan said softly. "And God only knows what going under cover costs him, and what he'll be like when he emerges."

"You think he's one of yours," I said.

She looked at the wine in her glass. The light above the booth shone through it and made it ruby. Then she looked back up at me and nodded slowly.

"I think he's one of mine."

"Which one?" I said.

She shook her head.

"I haven't the right," she said. "Not yet. If I'm wrong and he's accused, it will destroy him."

"Godammit," I said.

Susan reached across the table and put her hands on my mouth. She let her hands slide down from my mouth along my shoulders and arms and rested them on my forearms.

"Please," she said. "Please."

I took in as much air as I could get through my nose and let it out slowly, the way I used to let cigarette smoke drift out after I inhaled.

She was leaning forward so far that the tortellini was in danger.

"To be who I am. To be the woman you love, to be part of what we are, which is not like anyone else is, to be Susan, I have to be able to deal with this as I must. I must use my judgment and my skill and I mustn't let fear change any of that."

I looked at her small hands lying on my forearms. It seemed as if we were alone in a void, no waiters, no diners, no restaurant, no world.

And it seemed as if we sat that way for twenty minutes.

"No," I said finally, "you mustn't. You're perfectly right."

I looked up at her big eyes, and they held me. She smiled slowly.

"And," I said, "you're about to put your tit in the tortellini." . He'd heard the boyfriend on the radio, Spenser. He'd been saying that the schwartze didn't do it. Did they know about him? Did the sonovabitch make him when he'd left the rose? Everybody else thought the schwartze did it. How come Spenser didn't? Did she? Did she know he did it? Did she know he tied all the other broads up and gagged them and watched them struggle and try to scream through the gag? He looked at the fish in the tank swimming quietly, the morning sun shining through the tank.

She'd come out in a minute and say come in and then he'd be in the tank.

Maybe she'd like being tied up. Some women did. They liked being tied up and naked and begging for it. He could feel the rush again as he thought about it. But he couldn't come talk to her anymore if he did something. And she might tell the boyfriend. Big bastard. In the papers it said he'd been a fighter. Fuck him. Maybe she'd told the boyfriend. Maybe she suspected him from what he said in there. They knew. Shrinks knew stuff even when you didn't want them to. She watched him all the time. She watched when he moved his arm or jiggled his foot, or shifted in the chair. She watched everything. She concentrated on him… the fish cruised in slow circles in the sunny water… she cared about him. She wouldn't tell the boyfriend. She wouldn't. The boyfriend thought it on his own. The has tard. She wouldn't tell. The office door opened. She was there in a dark blue dress with red flowers on it.

"Come in," she said.

When he stood, it startled the fish and they darted about in the tank.

"My father used to go to whores," he said. "And then he'd feel bad about it and the next day he'd bring her roses." The shrink seemed interested. He thought she would be.

"And she used to say, "You been with some floozie, George? "And he'd just sort of look at the floor and say, "A rose for you, Rosie," and he'd go away."

"He wouldn't fight with her," the shrink said.

"No, he never fought with her. He just got drunk and went to the whores."

She looked quietly at him. There was always that quiet about her, that peaceful welcoming stillness. No judgments.

"How did you feel about that?" she said.

He felt himself shrugging, felt himself being casual.

"Hell, he took me once," he said. He felt the feeling again in his stomach, the feeling of void ness She raised her eyebrows slightly.

"Black hooker," he said. "I was about fourteen." The void was expanding and behind it the sensation, the hotness and tingle that always came. He heard himself telling her. He felt his daring and that added to the tingle. "Christ, she smelled bad."

The shrink waited, inviting him with her calmness.

"Turned me off," he said, still feeling himself being casual.

They were both quiet, the shrink sitting perfectly still, he sitting as casually as he could, one arm leaning on the back of his chair. He could feel his eyes begin to tear. Still casual, he looked at her, blurred now, waiting.

"I couldn't," he said, his voice shaky and hoarse. "I couldn't do anything. She was fat, and, and .. He felt his shoulders shake a little. "… hairy and… she was mean."

"To you?" the shrink said.

"Yes." So he was telling her. "Yes. She teased me and talked about how little it was and how weak it was and she tried to make me do it, tried, you know, to make me hard, and I couldn't and she got mad and said I was insulting her and I better do it or she'd cut it off and I was a bigot 'cause she was black."

"Terrifying," the shrink said.

"And my father was off somewhere fucking some other whore and I couldn't get away."

He struggled for breath. The sentences had been too long.

"And," the shrink said.

"And finally she threw me out of the room with no pants on and locked the door. And I had to wait there until my father came and took me home with his jacket wrapped around me. And some of the other whores saw me."

"Did you talk about this with your father?"

"He was mad at me for losing my pants. He said my mother would be mad at us."

Belson came by Susan's place at eleven in the morning and gave me a thick folder that had everything he and Quirk had learned about all seven suspects.

"Quirk says read it and think about it and then we should talk," Belson said. "You, me, Quirk, and Susan, if she will."

"Okay, I'll do it today," I said. "What are you going to do?"

"Go home, introduce myself to the wife and kids, and take a nap."

"Before you do that," I said, "see if you can compare this voice to the one I gave you before."

"Red call you again?"

"Among others. You'll see which one I mean. It's the one that says he might still be out there."

"I'll see if we can get an unofficial voiceprint even though I'm on vacation," Belson said. "I'll let you know."

Belson left and I began to read. Most of them were notable for not being interesting. There were no arrest records among them. Iselin, the Eastern studies prof, had had a jam while instructing in a private boys' school. A student had complained that Iselin solicited him, but nothing seemed to come of it. Two years later Iselin finished his Ph.D. at Harvard and stayed on to teach. Larson, the cop, had applied for sick leave, pleading burn-out, and been told to seek counseling. All were married except Felton and Iselin. Iselin had never been married, and Felton was divorced. They'd already eliminated Larson, the cop, because his work record showed he'd been on duty and accountable during the time at least three of the murders had happened. Gagne, the Frenchman, was out too. He'd been in France visiting his family when the second murder took place during Harvard spring break. Of the five remaining, Felton, the security guard, jumped out. There were two college teachers, a medical intern, the owner of a gourmet food store, and a security guard. We could probably eliminate a couple of others if we could talk with them or their co-workers. We could establish if Charles, the intern, had been on duty during any of the murders, for instance. But then they'd know they were being gum shoed I liked Felton. I took his folder and read it again. There's only a little you can do in a short time without creating suspicion. He was forty-three years old, divorced, father deceased. Current address was Charlestown, but he had grown up in Swampscott. There was a Xerox of a page from his high school yearbook. His picture was there among others and his school activities were listed.

"Son of a bitch," I said.

Under his picture it said Track 3, 4. Didn't prove anything. That was twenty-five years ago. But still. I put down the file and got on the phone and talked with the AD at Swampscott High School.

"Kid named Gordon Felton," I said. "Ran on your track team there in… it would be 1961 and 1962. What did he run?"

The AD said, "Why do you want to know?"

"Name's Arthur Daley," I said. "New England Sports Weekly. We're doing a retrospective. High school sports twenty-five years ago."

"Hey, nice idea. Hang on, I can check on it in a minute. We got pictures and stuff back to the war."

He was gone maybe five minutes while I listened to the sound of silence on the wires. What a great idea. It could replace Muzak.

Then the AD came back on. "Mr. Daley. Yeah, Gordie Felton was a hurdler. Third in the state in the 440 high hurdles."

"Thanks," I said.

"You don't know where he is now, do you?"

"Naw, I've only been here three years. I just got it out of the files."

"Okay," I said. "Thanks for your help."

We hung up. It still didn't prove anything. Because he could do it then didn't mean he could do it now. Still, a lot of men can't outrun me, and the guy that left the Red Rose could.

I read all the folders again except Larson and Gagne, and read them again and then put them down and stood and walked around Susan's place, looking out the windows, checking the refrigerator, looking out the windows on the other side. The refrigerator had a head of cauliflower, some broccoli, two Diet Cokes, and a package of Chinese noodles. Bon app tit.

Hawk showed up at one with tuna fish subs, everything but onions, and a large bag of Cape Cod potato chips.

"I wish we'd catch the bastard," Hawk said. "I'm getting rock-jolly sitting around here every day."

He was wearing a brown Harris tweed sport coat and a blue oxford-weave button-down shirt with no tie and three buttons open. His jeans were starched and ironed and he had on mahogany cowboy boots.

"What are you today," I said, "a Harvard cowboy?"

"Eclectic," Hawk said, and began unrolling one of the subs. We ate at Susan's island, leaning over the unwrapped paper to keep from slopping on the counter.

"One of the guys on the list used to be a hurdler in high school," I said. "Was third in the state in his senior year."

"Must have been a while back or he'd a been a brother," Hawk said.

"Nineteen sixty-two," I said.

Hawk nodded. "Don't mean a hell of a lot," he said.

"He's a security guard," I said.

"Maybe wish he were a cop?" Hawk said.

"Might even claim to be," I said.

"How she doing?" Hawk said. When he talked "she" he always meant Susan.

"She thinks she has an idea who our man might be," I said, "but she can't be sure."

"So she sit and listen to him and nod and let him talk and she don't know for sure he won't stick a handgun in her and pull the trigger."

Hawk said.

"Which is why she has one of us baby-sitting twenty four hours a day," I said. "She's getting sort of rock-jolly too."

Hawk nodded. "Time to review the evidence again?"

"Yeah. The hurdler has an ex-wife," I said. "Maybe I'll go talk with her."

"Take my picture along," Hawk said. "Tell her she can meet me if she cooperate."

"And if she doesn't," I said, "she meets you twice."

Mimi Felton lived in a condo in a vast assemblage of town houses clustered around a man-made pond in Concord. That morning on the phone she told me that she worked the makeup counter at Bloomingdale's and didn't go to work until four. I got there at 2:10 and she answered my knock wearing a white ribbed-cotton halter and black jeans, which she must have zipped lying down. She was barefoot. She had a lot of blond hair combed so as to show me she had a lot of blond hair. She had rings on eight fingers, and her earrings dangled like Christmas ornaments from her ears.